By Alexandra Howe | Guest Travel Writer
All images by Alexandra Howe
San Rafael is the patron saint of Córdoba. One of his likenesses stands at the center of the Puente Romano, the Roman Bridge, gazing patiently over the Guadalquivir River. If you notice him from afar, he looks grand, imposing. I never knew who he was exactly, but from my end of the bridge he looked lofty and larger than life, looming in that way that you expect of neoclassical statues around Europe. I teach English in Córdoba and I walk past the Puente Romano every week to get to one of my classes; I’ve settled into a route that takes me through my favorite plaza, Plaza de la Corredera, where I always find an excuse to stop for coffee and a tortilla española at La Paloma (the excuse being, it’s delicious), then through the Plaza del Potro, and finally to the river, which I wander down in the direction of the Mezquita, the Great Mosque.
All images by Alexandra Howe
San Rafael is the patron saint of Córdoba. One of his likenesses stands at the center of the Puente Romano, the Roman Bridge, gazing patiently over the Guadalquivir River. If you notice him from afar, he looks grand, imposing. I never knew who he was exactly, but from my end of the bridge he looked lofty and larger than life, looming in that way that you expect of neoclassical statues around Europe. I teach English in Córdoba and I walk past the Puente Romano every week to get to one of my classes; I’ve settled into a route that takes me through my favorite plaza, Plaza de la Corredera, where I always find an excuse to stop for coffee and a tortilla española at La Paloma (the excuse being, it’s delicious), then through the Plaza del Potro, and finally to the river, which I wander down in the direction of the Mezquita, the Great Mosque.
Guadalquivir River in Córdoba, Spain
Last week I finally crossed the bridge to reach the neighborhood across the river from the Mezquita and I passed San Rafael. He looked gangly. Well, not gangly, exactly. Skinny. He was short. He was several feet taller than me, but only for the marble block he was set on, decorated with a quote in Latin or Old Spanish that was too faded and worn away for me to know the difference, and partially covered by bouquets of flowers and candles left by the faithful. But if Rafael and I stood toe to toe I doubt he’d clear my forehead: not counting the halo. His arms were thin and boyish, which, to be honest, was disappointing. Angels carved into stone in Graeco-Roman style, in all their mythical elegance, should be, if female, curvaceous and regal, and if men – let’s be honest here - built. For San Rafael’s arms to be that skinny I expected them to be accompanied by a set of breasts, one of them, given the style for the age, nonchalantly exposed, popping out of a loose shift that never meant to cover both of them anyway. But San Rafael looked human – a little guy, thin, normal, probably starting to bald in the next couple years.
San Rafael on the Guadalquivir River
To be fair, lots of things are atypical in Cordoba. The greatest tourist attraction is the Mezquita, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Mezquita began as a mosque erected by the Caliphate back in 785, after Spain had come under Muslim rule. It was constructed on the foundations of a basilica built by the conquered Visigoths, which the Muslim ruler Abd al-Rahman I actually bought from them. The regime was anomalously tolerant of other religions. Later, when the Christians took over, instead of razing the mosque they built an enormous cathedral inside of it. You can find the striking mudéjar style – a beautiful meshwork of Muslim and Christian influences – all over southern Spain, but Cordoba’s strange history has created a singular monument to the interface of those cultures in the way that shifting tectonic plates create mountains.
 San Rafael |  La Puerta del Puente, with el Triunfo de San Rafael |
Being the patron saint of Córdoba, Rafael enjoys a number of representations throughout the city, many of them magnificent, including the Triunfo de San Rafael de la Puerta del Puente, just a few hundred meters away from the bridge. The Rafael of the Triunfo is how I expect a monument to look – he towers on a huge column and hovers benevolently over the tourists taking selfies in front of the Mezquita. But it was Little Rafa, as I call him, who grabbed my attention and still hasn’t let it go. I didn’t know this at the time that I saw him, but Catholics know Archangel Raphael as the patron of nurses, doctors and medical workers (Raphael means “God heals”), as well as travelers. I like to think of this particular rendering of the Archangel watching over the city, vibrating with unseen majesty and glorious healing power, all packed into this skinny, average looking guy that I’d pass without a second look if I saw him on the street.
Córdoba is full of these inconsistencies. It is a city of unassuming magic. Its landscape, with its center rising patiently out of the Guadalquivir, its quiet streets rolling out to stout, comforting, ubiquitous mountains dotted blue with olive trees, belies its history as the light of Europe, the mighty Western center of philosophy and commerce in the Middle Ages. You arrive thinking, “Well, this is nice,” and then on looking closer realize you’ve stumbled upon something very special.
Córdoba is full of these inconsistencies. It is a city of unassuming magic. Its landscape, with its center rising patiently out of the Guadalquivir, its quiet streets rolling out to stout, comforting, ubiquitous mountains dotted blue with olive trees, belies its history as the light of Europe, the mighty Western center of philosophy and commerce in the Middle Ages. You arrive thinking, “Well, this is nice,” and then on looking closer realize you’ve stumbled upon something very special.
Guadalquivir River at Sunset
So here I’ve arrived in Córdoba, to an ancient city blessed, unbeknownst to me, by a saint bestowing the very thing I had thought I had left behind me. As I leaned against the stonework of the Puente Romano that day, watching flocks of birds eagerly wing their way up the Guadalquivir to the Albolafia woodlands, their resting place for the night, I occasionally glanced up at the unassuming angel beside me, a quiet reminder that the miracles, the cures, we’re looking for might just be in these skinny little packages, if only you stick around, take a closer look, and have a little faith.
Alexandra Howe is a native Chicagoan who spent the last five years in New York City. This past September she left her job as an emergency room nurse to live and work in Spain. She relays her experiences on her blog, www.lachiquitaviajera.wordpress.com.
She firmly holds that Chicago’s hotdogs are the best in the world – do we even need to ask about her stance on the pizza?
She firmly holds that Chicago’s hotdogs are the best in the world – do we even need to ask about her stance on the pizza?
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